


Chaotically Beautiful

by otma16718



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:53:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6955405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otma16718/pseuds/otma16718
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'You're the Ripper.' Will panted. </p><p>'Why do you think I'm the Ripper?' </p><p>Had he been less terrified and sure of his imminent death, Will might have laughed at the ridiculousness of being saved from one murderer to be killed by another. </p><p>'Your style is unmistakable.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Will took in the latest body, still warm and seeping blood from the freshness of the kill. Male, Caucasian, aged 30-40, identity as yet unknown. The skin had been slashed, ripped open with knives and hands, without much care taken in presentation. There were occasional flashes as Price and Zeller photographed every inch of the bloody scene. For a second, Will thought he saw the exposed heart beating, but he knew it was just a trick of his mind. Another trick.

He shook his head. 'It's not the Ripper, Jack.'

Jack watched Will for a moment before nodding. He had known that already, but had wanted Will to confirm his suspicions.

'What makes you say that?'

'The mutilations. They're too frenzied. The attack is like that of an animal, not a person. This is unsophisticated, he carried the murder out simply for the thrill of feeling blood coating his hands and face.'

There was silence as they digested the gory images, before Will spoke again, quieter this time.

'In fact, I'm not even sure it's a copycat. This feels more like mockery than admiration.'

Jack leaned closer as Will's eyes focused in on the jagged cuts which were deep enough to expose the bone in places on the victim's legs. The blood from the wounds had pooled and congealed under the body, streaming away across the sloped paving tiles.

'He wanted to show the Ripper what it feels like to lose control, to show him that there is a hidden beauty in chaos.'

Will clamped his mouth shut. He needed to stop making comments like that.

'I'm not seeing any beauty here, just a lot of mess to clean up.' Zeller commented, crouching down to inspect the body.

Beverley nodded. 'Well, hopefully somewhere in all that blood our killer's left some DNA. It would be pretty hard not to leave something with a kill like this.'

Sighing, Will squeezed the bridge of his nose and tore his eyes away from the body. It was just after three in the morning, and Will had been summoned from his bed, where the buzzing of his phone had broken him out of yet another gory nightmare. Will had answered the phone, sweating and panting, desperate to provide himself with a distraction, even if it was another massacre. The night should have been dark, but the large moon lit up the streets around them well, so shadows hung in long streaks across the road. Will cast his gaze over them.

One of the shadows moved.

Will frowned.

Without looking at Jack, keeping his eyes fixed on the shadow, he spoke. 'He's still here, Jack.'

Jack spun and followed Will's gaze, suddenly becoming aware of the fact that the number of people on the scene totalled five, and apart from their guns, they were unarmed; the force was stretched to breaking point, and hadn't been able to send officers with the forensic team.

The shadow moved again, and Will's hand found its way to the handle of his gun, held secure to its holster at his waist.

Suddenly, a figure darted from the shadows, and without thinking, Will bolted.

Beverley spun in his wake. _'Will!'_

Will heard footsteps behind him, and knew Beverley was on his tail, although he had a considerable head start. The killer glanced round at the shout, and their pace picked up when they saw they were being chased.

 _Amateur killer_. Will thought, _He wanted to watch us dissect his scene, but didn't want us to catch him_. His feet pounded the paving stones as he ran, and Will's heart picked up its pace.

The killer crossed the street and darted into the adjacent park. Will followed, barely slowing in caution at the wet, slippery grass under his feet.

Behind him, he heard Beverley fall. He didn't turn back, knowing Beverley would be angry if he did. He was sure she wasn't hurt.

Will knew he couldn't run much longer, but he hoped the killer couldn't either. The killer had the added boost of the adrenalin from the kill, but soon he would crash, unable to continue. As they raced toward the tree line, Will pulled his gun. Without slowing his pace, he flicked the safety off.

As the killer dashed into the trees and started weaving between them, Will began to wish he had a torch. The leaves above blocked the moonlight from reaching the ground; Will was essentially blind, in a wood, with a killer who was inexperienced, and likely still had his murder weapon. He was glad he had a gun.

It was less than a minute before Will lost sight of the killer. He stopped, panting hard and spinning on the spot, trying to look for any movement.

'We have you surrounded. Come out with your arms raised.' He put as much authority into the order as he could. A little bluffing wouldn't do any harm; Will was relying on the killer's naivety.

Will spun again, suddenly realising that he wasn't sure which way led out of the wood. He heard a twig snap and twisted, pointing his gun frantically.

'If you do not give yourself up, we will be forced to open fire.'

There was movement behind him, and Will dodged sideways, narrowly missing a potentially fatal blow to his head as someone brought a large rock down hard on his shoulder; it had to be the left shoulder - the one already injured from a previous stab wound - of course. Will heard a crack at the impact, and screamed.

It was an animal scream which Will hadn't known he could make, a call to arms of anyone nearby with the least compassion.

He dropped to the ground and rolled instantly, just avoiding a second blow.  The roll caused more pain, and he grimaced, frozen in place for a precious moment, before he was able to lift his gun. He could feel the rocky, wet ground pressing through his jacket.

'Drop your weapon.' Will's order was shakier than he would have preferred.

The killer smirked, eyeing the gun. 'You sure you can still fire that?'

Will hid his frown. Maybe this killer wasn't as inexperienced as he'd first surmised. Or maybe he was just feeling overconfident from the recent murder; he still had blood stained across his hands, chest and face. To be truthful, Will knew he only had one chance with the gun; the recoil from the shot was sure to cause blinding, even incapacitating, pain.

The killer made a show of looking around. 'Where's your backup? I thought we were surrounded.'

Will's stomach clenched. He said nothing.

A smile. 'There isn't any backup. Thought not. So why come after me?'

He needed to bide more time. 'Why mock the Ripper?' Will's response wiped the smile from the killer's face, replacing it with mild surprise.

'What makes you think I'm mocking him?'

'You dislike his style, but admire his reputation. You wanted to show him that there is beauty in chaos, not precision. Precision feels like caution to you.'

The killer fiddled with the rock in his hands. Will knew he'd hit the mark, but, rather than intriguing the killer, it simply angered him. _Definitely an amateur._

'Death is messy. The way I kill should reflect the turmoil of emotions my victim faces.'

Without warning, he raised the rock and flung it at Will's head. He rolled to the side, firing the gun from instinct as he did so. Just as he had predicted, the recoil of the gun sent a flare of pain through his shoulder so strong that Will's vision went white. He screamed in agony, arching his back and driving his head backward into the damp ground. He knew he was dead now. Any second, the killer would be on him, clawing at his chest, releasing streams of blood.

He waited. Nothing happened.

Slowly, Will became aware of movement and the grunts of a fight. He lay, panting and unable to move, and cast his eyes to the scene. The killer was pinned to the floor, being wrestled by a tall man, with broad shoulders and sandy-grey hair. The strange man squeezed the killer's throat, and Will watched, frozen, as the fight faded from him. There was calm control to the actions of the man which frightened Will. It had a startling familiarity. He seemed utterly indifferent to the act he was performing, or to the fact he had an audience.

Sensing Will's gaze, the man looked up. Will summoned all his strength into speaking; there was no point trying to escape, he was incapable of moving.

'You're the Ripper.' Will panted.

The man's face changed almost imperceptibly. He glanced at his victim, making sure he was dead, before standing and coming over to Will.

'Why do you think I'm the Ripper?'

Had he been less terrified and sure of his imminent death, Will might have laughed at the ridiculousness of being saved from one murderer to be killed by another.

'Your style is unmistakable.'

The Ripper crouched down, and Will flinched, trying and failing to put more distance between them. 'Why are you afraid? I haven't come to harm you.'

Will laughed then, a short, sharp bark that was cut off by another throb of pain through his shoulder. He grimaced.

The Ripper came closer.

Looking around, Will's heart dropped when he realised he couldn't see his gun. He knew that, in reality, he wouldn't be able to fire it again, but the idea of holding the weapon in his hand was comforting. He glanced back at the Ripper, who was watching him closely, scrutinising his movements.

'What is your name?'

Will was momentarily distracted from the pain by the odd question. Thinking about it, it made sense that the Ripper would want to know him before he killed him; it would be more intimate.

'Will. Will Graham.'

'Can I check your shoulder, Will? It's causing you considerable pain.'

 _And I'm sure you will be soon, too._ Will thought sarcastically, although he didn't say it.

The Ripper seemed to take Will's silence as an affirmative. He reached forward, carefully slipping Will's jacket off his shoulder, before feeling for damage gently through his shirt. Will flinched at the contact.

'I'm a Doctor, Will.'

'I know.' He ground out.

Will wondered if this was what it felt like to be killed by the Ripper: calm reassurance, friendly conversation, spiralling fear. He knew that it wasn't, though; the Ripper saw his victims as pigs not worth his time. Clearly, he didn't see Will this way. Will wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or terrified by this prospect.

The Ripper's fingers pressed gently into Will's skin, and he doubled over, biting his lips to stop himself crying out again as white-hot pain raced through his arm. It took several moments for him to regain any form of control and slowly uncurl his body. The Ripper looked on, _fascinated_. Will groaned.

'Your shoulder and collar bone are fractured. There may be bone fragments lodged in your muscle.' The Ripper's tone was clipped, Will almost thought he sounded angry; the pain must be skewing his perception.

'That sounds bad.' Will ground out through his clenched teeth.

'It certainly requires immediate attention with the correct materials available.' The Ripper sounded as though he was thinking aloud.

Will nodded. 'Leave me here, then. They'll find me eventually.'

‘You don’t seem to have much regard for your safety, Will.’ The Ripper almost sounded upset; Will thought he must be going mad.

‘Either you’ll kill me, or you’ll leave me here to be found. I know which I’d prefer.’

'You've seen my face now; you know who I am.'

'Hit my head against a rock. It'll skew my recollection and give you longer to get away.'

The corners of the Ripper's eyes pinched. Will frowned; he'd said something wrong. He was silent for several long moments.

'I couldn't do that to you, Will. Your mind is far too beautiful.'

Will's frown depended. Had the Ripper just admitted he couldn't bear to hurt Will? Maybe he was just too exhausted to interpret the situation correctly. He closed his eyes, focusing on breathing evenly.

'Will?'

Will blinked, feeling oddly spaced out. He refocused his gaze on the Ripper's hairline.

'You're going into shock, Will.'

Will cracked a smile. 'Great.'

With a careful hand, the Ripper reached out and pushed Will's hair from his face, before pressing a cool hand to his forehead. He shivered.

'Do you feel cold?'

Will tried to focus on his body, but wasn't really sure whether he was hot or cold. Slowly, he shrugged. He instantly regretted the motion, as the pain once again burst across his shoulder. Will’s face crumpled.  

The Ripper watched him intently, and then appeared to steel himself.

Will cocked a cautious eyebrow.

'I'm going to pick you up, Will. It's going to hurt you. Try not to make a sound; I don't want to have to damage your shoulder more by being forced to run.'

Will didn't have time to react before he was pulled into the Ripper's surprisingly strong arms.

The pain from the movement was immediate and extreme. Will clamped his mouth shut, turning his face instinctively into the Ripper's neck to muffle his whimpers. White flashed in front of his eyes, before black dots danced in his vision. Will knew he was going to lose consciousness. Belatedly, Will realised that, in not making a sound, he'd stopped Beverley from being alerted to his presence, and so had helped the Ripper kidnap him. He knew he’d regret it later, but in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care very much.

As Will's mind shut down and his muscles relaxed, he felt the Ripper's grip tighten around him.


	2. Chapter 2

Will didn't remember the first time he woke up, but the Ripper did.

The Ripper remembered the soft sunlight which filtered through the curtains, leaving streaks which cut across Will's body like the sharp slashes of a knife. He remembered how the sun shone through Will's dark curls, brightening his face, creating an image akin to a halo around his head, and highlighting the large bags under his eyes, which told not just of one night of poor sleep, but many.

Will didn't remember the soft murmur of pain he made before he opened his eyes, when the dull throbbing of his shoulder forced its way into his consciousness. Nor the way his face crumpled as the pain intensified when he tried to move.

Will didn't remember the unfocused haze of his drowsy eyes the first time they crept open; eyes the colour of forests and skies and oceans. But the Ripper sat enthralled, watching as the haze gave way to confusion and then fear, a fear so deep and consuming the Ripper could barely fathom what Will saw, as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings.

Neither did Will remember the soft shushing noises and gentle reassurances the Ripper made, or the way that, when the Ripper placed a hand to his clammy forehead, Will leaned into it very slightly, seeking out a contact which his more lucid mind would have flinched away from.

Finally, Will didn't remember trying to make his mouth work, to form the sounds of question and plea, the way his tongue rolled across his dry and disobedient lips, as all he could produce was an unintelligible slur. And he didn't remember the way the Ripper read to him in soft, rounded tones, until Will's attempted protests faded and his eyes drooped, stealing him away once more to a land of nightmare and oblivion.

***

When Will woke the second time, his head felt a little clearer, but things were still rather fuzzy around the edges. He became aware first of the pain in his shoulder, although it was more of a dull, insistent throb than the white-hot pain he remembered from before. Still, he couldn't stifle the low groan which found its way to his lips.

Slowly, Will pried his eyes open, cautious of the light which filtered from behind his lids. His first thought was that he must be in hospital; it was logical, given the fact he was injured and artificially relaxed, but something about the image felt _wrong_.

For one thing, it didn't smell right; there was no sting of industrial-issue antiseptic on his nostrils, no scent of cheap detergent from the sheets. Instead, although the air was fresh, it felt richer, deeper, a comforting warmth of pine and cotton; although these scents weren’t reminiscent of his home, they were welcoming. And the sheets were luxuriously soft, a fine silk unlike anything he had felt before. Idly, Will ran his fingertips across their cool expanse. _Expensive_.

The room also didn't look like a hospital room; it looked more like a house, a guest bedroom perhaps. A large bay window, blocked by curtains, took up most of one wall, while a painting of a frothy, swirling sea occupied the adjacent one. Will cast his eyes to the door: heavy oak, matching the bed frame in both colour and quality. Wherever he was, no expense had been spared on decoration.

Will had the urge to sit up, to pull himself into a position where he wouldn't feel so vulnerable, so exposed. Something here breathed _danger_. But Will's body wouldn't obey him, so apart from ghosting his right hand over the sheets, he lay still.

  
In the calm, quiet room, Will drifted in and out of consciousness, dozing in body, even as his mind screamed at him to do something.

***

It was some time later when Will was pulled once more from sleep by the sound of footsteps on plush carpet, followed by the click of the opening door.

His heart leapt when the Ripper entered. The man's sandy-grey hair was combed back neatly, perfectly. His eyes were rich and brown, the colour of corn fields in a summer evening. He wore a suit which looked more expensive than Will's entire wardrobe put together: steel-grey with a deep red tie the colour of fresh blood. Every inch of the Ripper was distinguished and precise, just like his kills, Will's mind added quickly.

In his exhaustion and confusion, Will had forgotten about his unlikely rescuer, but as soon as he saw him, it all came flooding back to Will: the fight, the calming words, the strong arms. Fear. Suddenly the unfamiliar surroundings and previously-unjustified feelings of danger made a lot more sense. Will wondered again why the Ripper hadn’t just killed him.

On seeing Will awake and alert, the Ripper paused and gave a gentle smile. He approached Will as one would approach a trapped wild animal. Will thought of his dogs back home and hoped Alana would have the presence of mind to feed them. She would, of course she would. His hands ached to bury themselves in their thick, familiar fur; his fingers twitched with longing at the thought on them.

The Ripper moved closer and deposited a steaming tray of food on a table into the corner of the room before coming over to the bed.

'Hello, Will. It's good to see you awake. How are you feeling?'

Will scrunched his eyes. _Terrified. Confused. Abandoned_. He didn't say these things; instead, he said, 'drugged'.

The Ripper nodded, acknowledging the slight accusation in Will's tone. 'I gave you a dose of morphine to lessen the pain.'

Will narrowed his eyes. 'You gave me more than that.'

'I did. You were agitated, delirious even, so I gave you a sedative while I examined and treated your shoulder.'

Will nodded. Plausible.

'How is your shoulder?'

'It's fine.'

'Will.'

Will resisted the urge to roll his eyes; the Ripper was only trying to help. _That's a ridiculous sentence_. Not for the first time, Will wondered how he'd managed to get himself into such a spectacular mess. 'Ok, it's not fine. It hurts, but not too much. How bad was the damage?'

'Your shoulder joint was fractured from the impact of the rock, and your collar bone was broken, most likely as a result of you firing your gun.' The Ripper stepped closer. 'Can you sit up, Will?'

Will licked his lips. 'I might need a hand.'

'Certainly'. The Ripper seemed pleased. Pleased that Will had asked for help? Maybe. He stepped forward and hooked one hand under Will's right arm and the other under his back, before practically pulling him into a sitting position. Will hissed in pain as his shoulder was jostled by the movement.

'What's...your name?' If the Ripper wasn't going to kill him instantly, Will might as well get to know him a little.

The Ripper adjusted the pillows behind Will without pausing, before gently leaning him back against the headboard. He turned and retrieved the tray from the table before pulling up a chair next to the bed. For a moment, Will thought he was going to ignore the question completely, but then he licked his lips and met Will’s eyes, his deep brown irises boring into him until Will pulled his gaze away.

'Hannibal Lecter.'

Will resisted the urge to snort. Of all the names, the Ripper had to have the most pretentious one possible. He grappled for something to say in response. 'Hello, then, Dr Lecter.'

Hannibal smiled without showing any teeth. 'I'm a psychiatrist now, not a practising physician.'

_My profile of you was spot on_. Will looked down at his hands, which he'd somehow twisted in the silky sheets. 'I don't really like psychiatrists.'

'I can tell.' Hannibal picked up a spoon from the tray in his lap. 'Are you hungry? I've made a light broth: Albondigas, a rich blend flavoured with oregano and cumin. Filling and nutritious.' Hannibal looked up and purposely roved his eyes across Will's form. 'It's exactly what you need; I couldn't help noticing your undernourishment when I examined you.'

Will squirmed uncomfortably. 'I don't have much of an appetite when there's a case; I can taste murder on my lips.’ It was oddly freeing to be able to say something like this without fearing judgement.

'You won't be on a case for a while, I hope.'

Will wasn't sure whether it was a reassurance or a threat; he nodded in cautious agreement.

'You don't seem too concerned about your own welfare, Will.'

_“Hit my head against a rock.”_

_“I couldn't do that to you, Will. Your mind is far too beautiful.”_

Hannibal stirred the soup carefully before placing the tray on Will's lap and handing him the spoon. Will dipped the spoon into the soup and brought a small mouthful to his lips, blowing on it gently before swallowing it down. He sighed.

'It's good. Thank you.'

Hannibal smiled. 'It's my pleasure, Will.'

Will cocked a cautious eyebrow as he swallowed a second spoonful. 'Why? What made you want to help me?'

Hannibal looked away for a moment. 'I watched you chase that killer. I heard you talking to him; you understood his kill intimately, yet you'd only just seen the body. You can understand killers; you can understand me.' _We could get along well_ , he didn't say.

'I understand what you do. That doesn't mean I agree with it.' Will watched Hannibal carefully, meeting his eyes only for a brief moment.

'Is not understanding in itself an agreement of sorts? An admission that the motivations of the action are logical enough so as to be explained with reason.'

The spoon stilled on its way to Will's mouth. 'Logical doesn't equal acceptable. Everyone can see the logic in killing, but most people also see the logic of the alternatives.' He eyed Hannibal pointedly. 'Or the consequences.'

'Of course. All actions have consequences. The world exists solely on a string of consequences. You and I are alive only thanks to consequence, and we met through these same designs of physics.'

Will didn't respond; the conversation was making his head spin. And anyway, most of his concentration was being used on trying not to spill soup over himself, or on the expensive bed linens; it was no mean feat.

Hannibal watched Will eat in silence until he placed his fork in the empty bowl with a light clatter. Then he rose from his seat and took the tray from Will, placing it back on the table.

With Hannibal's back to him, Will found it easier to make his awkward request. 'Could you...help me up? I need to use to toilet.' He felt like a five-year-old, and ducked his head in shame.

Hannibal retuned to Will's side and wordlessly helped him first swing his legs off the bed, and then pulled him shakily onto his feet. Will gripped Hannibal's hands tight despite his qualms, feeling dangerously unsteady. The world spun slightly and Will closed his eyes.

'Are you alright, Will?' Hannibal's voice was fixed, steady; Will focused on it.

'I'm fine. I just need a moment.'

After several long seconds, Will opened his eyes, glad to find the room stationary once more. To his chagrin, he realised he'd grabbed a handful of Hannibal's expensive suit jacket at some point in the process. He peeled his hand away.

'Sorry.'

'There is no need to apologise, Will.'

Will let go of Hannibal with both hands, so he was standing unsupported. Slowly, he shifted a foot forward, but the room rocked instantly, and Will found his hands, a second later, pressed against Hannibal's chest. He could feel Hannibal's heart beating beneath his ribs; he thought of the exposed heart of the victim the previous night, and wanted to vomit.

'I'm not sure I'll make it on my own.'

Hannibal steadied Will with his large, strong hands. 'Step forward, I won't let you fall.'

Will did as he was told, and although each movement was accompanied by a wave of dizziness, they eventually made it safely to the door of the room. Hannibal opened it, and Will took in the lack of a locking mechanism as they worked their way slowly into the corridor. The carpet, just as it had been in the bedroom, was soft and springy under Will's feet; the walls were a pale magnolia, and Will's eyes drifted across them to the end of the corridor, where a set of ornate stairs led down to the level below.

Will was thankful to see the bathroom door was opposite the bedroom, and even more thankful when Hannibal guided his hands to rest against the wall of the bathroom, instructing him to use it as a support, before leaving Will with at least some semblance of privacy. He breathed a sigh of silent relief as the wooden door clicked shut between himself and the serial murderer.

Will went about his business quickly, conscious that Hannibal could enter the room at any moment. There was expensive soap at the washbasin, and he dried his hands on the softest towel he'd ever touched. Hannibal never entered the room, but he was standing right outside the door when Will opened it. He was so close, in fact, that Will couldn't hide his flinch when their eyes met.

'I'm sorry, Will. I didn't mean to startle you.'

'There's no need to apologise.' Will cracked a lopsided smile, knowing Hannibal would hear the symmetry from their earlier conversation.

Hannibal took Will by the arm once more and guided him back to bed. The relief of sinking back into the soft sheets was greater than Will had expected; the simple exertion of a toilet visit had exhausted him. Will allowed himself to be pushed down on the bed, until his head rested against the plush pillows. He hummed and closed his eyes momentarily, before remembering who was watching.

Hannibal took his seat by Will's bed. He clasped his hands together in his lap, long fingers interlocking like a vice; Will wondered hazily if he played the piano, with hands like that.

Following Will's gaze, Hannibal almost appeared to read his mind. 'Harpsichord. A beautiful instrument; more raw than the piano, far more versatile. It sings to the unique style of each player.’

_As does death_. Will blinked up at his face, too tired to be concerned by the way Hannibal had caught onto his train of thought.

'I would like to give you another dose of morphine, Will, to stop your shoulder causing you pain in the night. Would that be acceptable?'

'I'm not keen on drugs.'

'It's not a sedative, although it will make you sleepy.'

'I don't want to be locked in my dreams.' Will clamped his mouth shut, realising that probably wasn’t the best thing to admit to a bloody _psychiatrist_.

Hannibal leaned forward a little. 'Do you often have bad dreams, Will?'

It was too late to go back now. Reluctantly, Will nodded.

'I can read to you, if you wish; it seemed to calm you last night.'

Will frowned; he had no recollection of this. At least if Hannibal was reading Will bedtime stories, he wouldn't be out murdering people. Will suppressed a shiver at the thought.

'Ok, then, if it isn't too much trouble.'

Hannibal smiled. 'Of course not. I will return in a moment.' He stood swiftly and swept from the room, only to return, true to his word, in what felt like a moment.

'I'll need your hand, please, Will.'

Will obediently extended his right hand, and Hannibal took it, uncapping an already-inserted IV on the back of it. Will frowned, how had he _not noticed_ an IV in his hand? What else hadn't he noticed?

Hannibal mistook Will's sharp intake of breath at the realisation for fear. He squeezed Will's fingers gently in reassurance. Maybe he knew exactly what Will had just noticed.

With practised skill, Hannibal injected the morphine into Will's arm. He recapped the IV and bagged the needle for later disposal.

'As I said before, it will make you quite sleepy. You should feel its effect fairly soon.'

Will nodded absently, his eyes already drooping to half-mast.

True to his word, Hannibal retrieved a book and sat down, elegantly crossing one long leg over the other as he opened the book.

'Have you read Homer's The Iliad, Will?'

Will hummed, hoping it sounded like a yes.

Hannibal smiled, and turned his attention to the pages, reading quietly of Patroclus, going into a war he hated in order to save Achilles from humiliation. Will was asleep before Hannibal even turned the page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments; they've really encouraged me to carry on this fic. :)


	3. Chapter 3

_Will stalked into the garage unseen and unheard in the dull gloom, and pushed Jeremy Olmstead down onto the wooden workbench behind him, pinning him in place with a metal pole relinquished from the corner of the room. He screamed in pain, crying out for help, but there was nobody around to hear him._

_'I enjoy killing Mr Olmstead. His arrogance caused me pain in life, so now I give him pain in death.'_

_Will grabbed another metal pole and brought it down on Olmstead's torso, expertly shattering his appendix in the manoeuvre. He reached for more weapons._

_'Each placement is exact. My kill is controlled; I know exactly which organ I want to destroy with each jolt. I relish the force of the actions.'_

_Will felt the sweat burst out across his face, neck, and back from the exertion. He thrust a wooden broom handle into his victim, who tried to scream, but could not, as his diaphragm was punctured. There was a soft thud as wood impacted soft tissue._

_'The murder resembles the Wound Man exactly; I want to show the FBI my expertise. I'm confident that even with this clue, they will not discover me.'_

_Panting, Will lifted a final pole above his head and smiled before bringing it down through Olmstead's heart, savouring the look of utter terror in his glazing eyes._

Will sat up fast, ignoring the sudden burst of pain from his shoulder, and resisted the urge to retch. He was covered in sweat and shaking, unable to catch his breath.

Once he'd checked himself for blood, carefully inspecting every inch of his hands and arms, he finally convinced himself it had been a dream. Only then did he look around and reorientate himself in Hannibal's house. The _Ripper's house_.Will knew he needed to get out. Soon.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, more mindful now of his throbbing shoulder, and fought to pull his sweat-soaked shirt off one-handed. He wasn't really sure what to do with the shirt, which then hung limply in his hand, so he flung it on the bed. _If Hannibal kills me for that, who cares?_

Will opened the bedroom door cautiously, half expecting to see Hannibal hovering on the other side, not that Hannibal would ever do something so inelegant as /hovering/, but, to his relief, Hannibal was nowhere to be seen. S _hould I really be relieved?_. There were, however, faint smells of cooking floating down the hallway; Will’s stomach grumbled, reminding him of how little he'd eaten in the last few days.

_Shower first, then food._

Will forced himself to turn away from the kitchen, took a breath, and crossed the landing to the bathroom, where he firmly locked the door behind himself before stripping off the rest of his sweat-soaked nightwear and stepping under the shower spray. He hoped the hot water would help him organise his thoughts. Trying to keep his bandaged arm out of the spray was harder than he’d imagined.

Will analysed his situation. He'd been missing now for three days, which was enough time for the FBI to be seriously concerned, although whether that concern would come from the lack of help with cases or his actual welfare, Will was less certain. It was unlikely they'd release his name, but someone was bound to let it slip sooner or later. Will thought again of his dogs and felt his stomach clench; Alana must have checked on them by now, but they needed individual attention and care, which was something she definitely wouldn't have the time for.

Running his good hand through his ragged curls, Will tried to shake off the phantom feel of dried blood. He turned, looking for shampoo, and found a bottle of the stuff which looked more expensive than anything Will had ever bought before. Tentatively, Will squeezed a little of it into his hand, glad when it didn't smell too strongly of any scent in particular. Satisfied, he rubbed it quickly into his hair.

When he was done, Will grabbed a soft, clean towel and wrapped it around himself before heading back to the bedroom. On the bed, he found a casual shirt and trousers laid out. The damp shirt was nowhere to be seen. He flicked the label on the new clothes, not even surprised to see they were in his size. _When had Hannibal had time to go clothes shopping?_  Will dressed quickly before heading towards the kitchen; he found it by scent alone.

Pausing at the kitchen door, Will observed Hannibal, whose back was turned to him. There was soft piano music playing in the background, and Hannibal looked utterly at home, relaxed in posture and stance. Will wondered how Hannibal looked when he killed, but shut the thought process down quickly, as countless bloody images flashed across his mind.

'What are you cooking?'

Hannibal looked up at Will's entrance, as if he hadn't heard him coming, although Will knew he had. His eyes scanned Will, taking in his still-damp hair and beautifully-fitting clothes.

'Boeuf bourguignon. It's a recipe I first tasted in France when I moved there in my later teenage years. I have loved it ever since.'

Will sat himself on a stool at the breakfast bar in Hannibal's kitchen with only a slight huff of pain. He had been under Hannibal's care for several days, and had yet to be murdered, which was always a positive. That morning was the first time Will had managed to get out of bed to go anywhere other than the adjacent bathroom, and although his progress in getting downstairs at last had been slow - partly due to the pain relief he was still on and the lack of food he'd eaten recently, and partly due to the fact that he couldn't help but marvel over the finer details of Hannibal's immaculate house - Will had eventually made it to the kitchen to answer the call of his desperate hunger, for answers as well as nourishment.

'How do you feel today, Will?'

'I'm fine.' Will always answered this way, even though he knew how much it irritated Hannibal. The corners of Hannibal's mouth pinched.

'You look tired. Nightmares?'

Will sighed; nothing got past this man. Slowly, he nodded. 'Yeah. I hope I didn't wake you.' He was conscious that only one thin wall divided Hannibal's room from his own. _Not my own, it's a guest room_ , Will reminded himself sharply.

Hannibal smiled, tipping the finely-diced onions into a pan before answering. They sizzled delicately in the heat. 'I am naturally a light sleeper, but no, I did not hear you last night. What did you dream of?'

'I'm not your patient, Doctor Lecter.' Will spoke more defensively than he'd meant to.

Hannibal smiled. 'You could be. But this is simply a casual enquiry, not an attempt at psychoanalysis.'

'It doesn't feel that way.'

Hannibal was silent; the only movement he made was to raise his chin very slightly in the air. The crushing need to break the silence forced Will to speak.

'I dreamed of the murder I was investigating the night you found me.' Will was lying through his teeth; he wasn't exactly about to tell Hannibal he'd dreamed that he was committing the Ripper's own murders.

'And you took the place of the killer? You acted out their crime?'

'Yes.'

'Do you always take this role when investigating a crime scene?'

'Their murders haunt me until they're solved, like shapes in a mirror, which disappear whenever you turn towards them.' And they haunt him even afterwards, too. Will waited for Hannibal to ask if his own murders still haunted him, now that Will knew who the murderer was, but he didn't.

'Your perception is extraordinary, Will, but it's a tool that is pointed at both ends.'

Will nodded. He was all too aware of this already. Hannibal stirred the onions, which had browned nicely, before moving on to cutting the meat. Will watched him, taking in his alarming skill with the knife, the way his hands moved deftly across the metal, fingers completely at home with a weapon clutched between them. Hannibal's shirt sleeves were rolled up to avoid stains, revealing thickly-muscled forearms. Will had seen first-hand what Hannibal's hands were capable of; the thought alone set his heart pounding.

Will licked his lips. 'What do you plan to do?'

Hannibal glanced up. 'I'm hoping to go into town once this is in the oven; there are some things I need to buy. Do you wish to remain here?'

'That isn't what I meant.'

Hannibal looked up again, innocently, blinking where his hair had fallen across his eyes, as if he hadn't caught onto what Will was saying. Then he smiled, the tips of his teeth showing in his mirth. Will stifled the urge to bolt like a startled deer.

'You mean what I plan to do with you.'

'Yes.' Will shifted on his stool under Hannibal's steely gaze. 'Do you still want to kill me?'

'What makes you think I ever did?'

The question made Will pause. He cast his mind back to that first night, where he'd stifled his gasps of pain under Hannibal's instruction, so as not to give them away. Even then, deep down, he'd known Hannibal wasn't going to kill him. At least, not in the short term.

'It wouldn't be sustainable for you to keep me alive. I work for the FBI; they're not going to stop looking for me-' Will was caught by another thought. 'Are...are they looking for me?'

Hannibal glanced down at the knife in his hands. He was very still for several seconds - until Will half wondered whether he'd turned to stone - before abruptly placing the knife on the counter top, wiping his hands on his apron, and crossing the room. There was a click, and the sounds of a radio came on in the built-in speaker system, replacing the soft melodic tones of the piano.

It was set to a news channel, narrated by a nasal-voiced woman, who spoke in brisk, clear tones. Will became as still as Hannibal at her words.

'...our main story this morning: an FBI Special Agent has gone missing, reportedly abducted, after giving chase to a suspected murderer while investigating the death of Mr Robert Cooper. The thirty-eight year old Agent, who has not yet been named, disappeared at around 3:50am on the morning of May 27th in the Inner Harbour East area of Baltimore, Maryland. Police have called for witnesses, believing a third person to be involved in the incident. We go now to...'

Hannibal flicked the radio off, casting the room into a silence broken only by the gentle hiss of cooking meat and the sounds of Will's deep, unsteady breaths. Will's hands clenched on the counter as he tried to regain some form of control over his racing mind.

Will had been right; they were looking for him. He wondered if they had made a formal statement, what information they had disclosed. Will thought about the crime scene, about whether they had realised someone else had defended him. They knew a third person was involved, but the nature of this involvement hadn't been stated. Will hands and DNA would be all over the scene and killer...he tried to think back to whether Hannibal had worn gloves, or any other protective clothing, but his mind, for once, couldn't summon the image.

There was a clang, and Will blinked as he saw a bowl of broth placed down on the counter in front of him. Hannibal's hands rested either side of the bowl, palm-down on the counter top. If he’d moved them a few inches nearer, his fingertips would have brushed against Will’s whitened knuckles.

'Will?'

Slowly, Will raised his gaze to direct it at Hannibal's shoulder. He blinked again and licked his lips, wondering how much time had passed.

'Have you dissociated like this before, Will?'

Will rubbed his good hand across his face. 'Yeah, sometimes, mostly at crime scenes.'

'It isn't healthy.'

'So I've been told.' Will thought it a little absurd that Hannibal should be discussing what was "healthy" when he was the one who killed people as a hobby.

'This man you work for, Jack Crawford, doesn't seem to have your best interests at heart.'

Will tried not to startle at the fact Hannibal knew of Jack; it wouldn't have been hard to find out in the age of the Internet. 'He has a job to do; solving cases comes before everything else.'

Hannibal tapped his fingers on the countertop. 'Then we may be able to use this to our advantage. Jack will be more concerned with having you returned to the field than with where you are now.'

Will dropped his gaze to the counter top. Was Hannibal seriously suggesting he'd let Will go? 'I know who you are, Hannibal. I know what you do. To keep that from the FBI would be...reckless.'

'You have no proof that I'm the Ripper other than my word.'

'I _know_  you're the Ripper.'

Hannibal leaned in closer. 'Jack doesn't go on feelings; he's a man concerned with fact and proof.'

‘But he’ll follow where his sniffer dog points.’ Will frowned. 'How do you know so much about Jack?'

'We live in a society, Will, where connections and associations are paramount. Jack has attended several dinner parties here and has even considered bringing me onto cases as a consultant.'

Will suddenly saw where this was going. 'No... Hannibal, you-'

'Jack will soon find that he needs me to be around, to support the casework and those who do the case work.'

'I won't be able to accuse my own psychiatrist of abducting me without looking crazy.'

Hannibal smiled, pleased Will had caught onto the plan. Then his smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, like he’d pulled back his jacket to show the tip of a carefully concealed gun. 'Of course, in order for Jack to think you need real help, although to an extent he already does, you'll need to be in poor shape when you return to him.'

Will opened his mouth to speak, but before he could make a sound, Hannibal's fist flew through the air and hit him cleanly across the temple. Hard. Will felt himself fly from the stool and fall to the ground, too fast for him to react. All he could do before he landed was twist to protect his injured shoulder.

He hit the floor with a thud and a stifled groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long to update! Exams are a cruel consumer of time and energy. Thanks for all the comments and kudos in the meantime. I've already written most of chapter four, so it should be up soon.


	4. Chapter 4

Will awoke, dizzy, confused, and in pain, to find himself in a room he didn't recognise. From the décor – elegant, mismatching in a way which somehow still worked - it was obvious he was still in Hannibal's house, and the presence of relaxed chairs, a fire and a television led him to the conclusion that he must be in some form of living room.

He hissed in pain when he tried to sit up, his shoulder throbbing ruthlessly and his head spinning. Will felt a gentle hand pressing on his shoulder, pushing him back down. He looked up.

'Hello, Will.' Hannibal gave a tight smile, and traced his finger across Will's eye line, watching how his eyes followed the movement.

'What are you doing?'

'I'm afraid someone has forced our hand, Will.' It was the closest he was going to get to an apology.

Will frowned. Hannibal wasn't making much sense, but he wasn't sure whether it was the dizziness distracting him, or whether Hannibal was being purposefully vague.

'Your name has been leaked to Freddie Lounds.'

Will brought a hand up to rub his temples. 'Great. Can I see the article?'

'If you wish.' Hannibal again placed a hand momentarily on Will's shoulder, then stood and crossed the room to a large oak desk Will hadn't even noticed. He picked up an iPad and returned to the sofa Will was spread across. Wordlessly, he handed it to Will.

Will squinted into the bright screen, blinking hard until the words came into focus.

_**MISSING FBI AGENT: LOST OR ON THE RUN**?_

_For the last few days, the FBI has made desperate appeals in the hunt to find an Agent they say was 'lost in the field'._

_Inside sources have now confirmed exclusively to_ TattleCrime _that the missing Agent is none other than Special Agent Will Graham._

_Mr Graham has been working with the FBI on an unofficial basis for several months, using a unique skill set to first understand and then track down serial killers._

_It has been reported that Mr Graham disappeared after pursuing a man now confirmed to have murdered a Mr Robert Cooper on Tuesday. The killer, not named here for legal reasons, was found dead a short way from the murder scene, strangled after an altercation in woods where he was being followed by Agent Graham._

_The question now is, why was the murderer killed so maliciously, and /where is Will Graham?/. Innocent men don't run. Had Mr Graham been killed, his body would have been beside Mr Cooper's murderer. In light of recent evidence suggesting third party involvement, Will Graham is looking guiltier with every hour which passes._

_So, when will he show his face again?_  

Beside the article were two photographs. One was of Will, which, even to him, made him look a little manic. He was hunched over, staring at the ground, one hand raking through his sweaty hair. Will wasn't even sure which crime scene it was from, but he knew it looked bad. The other was, however, even more concerning. It was a picture of Jack, the caption informing Will he was making an official statement. He looked haggard, sleep deprived, and desperately worried. There were large bags under his eyes, and his steely gaze was cast down at his hands. Jack would be livid when he saw the article; he probably already had.

Will was broken from his thoughts as Hannibal gently plucked the iPad from his hands.

'This leaves us in a rather unwelcome position.'

'If I don't go back, I'm guilty, if I go back, I'm guilty.'

Will saw a selection of images in his mind, of Jack bellowing orders, insisting that Will would never just disappear, even as the doubts started to creep in that that would be exactly what Will could do. Freddie’s “inside source” better have good legal protection, he thought dryly. Drawing a hand across his face, he sighed.

'Don't despair, Will. There is a way to avoid suspicion.'

Will looked up, and saw Hannibal's carefully covered expression. Whatever this solution was, it wasn't going to be pleasant.

Hannibal stood and left the room, his soft footfalls disappearing into silence almost instantly. Will had to strain to hear him returning a few minutes later.

When he did return, Hannibal placed a glass of cool water in Will's slightly unsteady hand, and helped him sit up. The movement jolted his shoulder, and Will had to bite down on his hand to stop himself crying out in pain. Hannibal's mouth pinched at the corners in an expression Will was starting to identify as displeasure. To anyone else, it would have been unnoticeable.

'I'm afraid I couldn't give you any more morphine, because it would show up in a toxicology screen, and therefore be difficult to explain.'

Will nodded silently, still not entirely sure where all this was going. Hannibal crouched down in front of him, trying to catch his eye, and placed a hand on his knee. He nodded towards the glass in Will's hand.

'Drink, Will. You won't get another one for a while.'

Obediently, Will raised the glass to his lips and swallowed down the water in a few quick gulps. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was.

'I guess I need to be dehydrated, as well as in pain.'

'It's necessary for the success of the plan, yes.'

Hannibal was still watching Will closely, too closely.

Will clenched his fingers around the glass as the first wave of dizziness hit him.

'W- What have you given me?'

Hannibal's hand tightened on Will's knee. 'A sedative. Valium. You need to be severely injured in order for your absence to be explainable. I don't wish to harm you in your current condition while you're still conscious.'

In a thoughtless act of defiance, Will pushed himself to his feet, swaying as he stood. Hannibal stood with him, not trying to stop him, but close enough to catch him if, or rather when, he fell.

'You can't make a plan without explaining it. How am I supposed to be convincing if I don't know what I'm meant to be saying?' Will clenched his fists, closing his eyes against another wave of dizziness. He realised he must have dropped the glass at some point. Its fall had been soundless against the plush carpet.

'Everything you need to know will be explained, Will. Do you trust me?'

Will was about to reply, when he tipped dangerously, and was forced to rebalance himself against Hannibal's steady form. Hannibal wrapped his strong arms around Will's back, in a warped echo of an embrace. He brought one hand up to grip the back of Will's head, pinning him in place.

'Do you trust me, Will?'

To be honest, it was a ridiculous question. A serial killer who had abducted him, fed him and now drugged him was asking Will if he trusted him. The sensible thing to do would be to fight while he had a chance, but Will did nothing. Hannibal had saved his life, looked after him, and was trying to help him now. Against his better judgement, Will found himself slowly nodding.

'It's alright, Will. The only harm you'll come to will be carefully controlled.'

Will wanted to protest at how terrible at comfort Hannibal was, but he lost consciousness before he could form the words.

* * *

 

For the second time that day - was it still the same day? - Will awoke dizzy, confused and in pain. He groaned quietly and felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

'Will.'

Will groaned again, and tried to pull away from the hand, but the movement simply produced a stuttered gasp of pain and a firmer grip on his shoulder.

'Will, you need to open your eyes.'

Slowly, Will obeyed. The first thing that met his gaze was Hannibal's own face, pinched with something akin to concern. Just as he had before, he drew a finger in front of Will's face. Will closed his eyes.

'You're quite severely concussed, Will. You need to stay awake.'

Will opened his eyes again to glare at Hannibal; the pain took some of the venom out of his stare.

'Where am I?' His words slurred slightly.

'You're currently in the back of my car. We're a quarter of a mile from the FBI headquarters.' He made a show of checking his ridiculously expensive-looking watch. 'It's 5:45am. Soon, it will be light. We don't have much time.'

'For what?'

Hannibal pressed his fingers into the pulse point in Will's wrist. He looked down, and was surprised for a moment to see a flare of deep red bruises running up his forearm.

'You're going to walk the last quarter mile to Quantico, where you'll be spotted instantly and taken to hospital. When you're able, you'll explain that an unknown man saved you from a murderer before leaving you, concussed and severely injured, in the middle of nowhere. From there, you managed to navigate your way to Quantico in search of help. Can you do that, Will?'

Will blinked heavily. He was struggling to grasp the plan, although he knew its importance.

'That won't explain...everything.'

Hannibal smiled. 'You need to sit up, Will.'

Without waiting for a reaction from Will, Hannibal slid his hands under Will's arms and pulled him upright, ignoring his grunts of pain and shaky breaths. Will scrunched his eyes closed for several moments, before opening them again to blink owlishly up at Hannibal.

'Why are we doing this?'

'Because the alternative is that I kill you, which is something I would find regrettable. Although I will do it, if the need arises.'

The warning couldn't be more clear: make the plan work, or you're dinner.

Hannibal produced a syringe from his pocket and held it up for Will to see. 'I'm going to give you this, which is a mixture of sodium lactate and cholecystokinin tetrapeptide, which has been shown to induce the physical and mental symptoms of a panic attack. It will convince Jack that you're in no state to be inventing alternatives to reality.'

Will nodded cautiously. He could see the logic of what Hannibal was doing, but he didn't like the idea of it in practise.

'It won't take long to have an effect, so you need to get yourself as close to Quantico as possible while you can. Walking won't be easy, but you can make it.'

Will wondered exactly how much harm Hannibal had caused him. He didn't even know what half his injuries were. It didn't really matter though, not now. Will looked down and realised he was back in his clothes from the night Hannibal found him. It took longer than he would have liked for him to realise they were torn and covered with blood.

'Are you ready, Will?'

Will looked up and met Hannibal's eyes briefly. He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded once, slowly. Seeing the assent, Hannibal quickly and expertly injected the drug into the back of Will's hand, before helping him out of the car. It was then that Will noticed he was barefoot. When he placed his right foot on the ground, it screamed with pain. Will gasped.

'Two of the bones in your foot are broken. I'm afraid you'll have to limp.'

Will nodded; he was too dazed to find the whole scene bizarre.

Hannibal pointed Will in the right direction and let him stand on his own. 'Go. I'll see you before long.'

Will wasn't sure whether this was a threat or a promise. Maybe it was both. Obediently, without looking back, Will limped toward the distant Quantico building. Behind him, the Sun was just beginning to creep above the line of the horizon. He wasn't sure how long Hannibal stayed, watching him grunt with each step, but it must have been several minutes at least before the car's engine rumbled into life.

The air was cold, biting at Will's face, hands, and feet. He was pretty sure some of his ribs had been broken, as breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. But the constriction in his chest could equally have come from the drug Hannibal had given him.

Two blocks away, Will felt the first waves of panic. He was breathing hard, struggling to focus on the wavering square block of the FBI headquarters. His heart was racing and sweat poured down his face and back from the exertion of walking so far.

One block away, and Will was struggling to think straight. He had to cross the road to reach the building. Without much thought, Will stumbled out onto the road. Despite the early hour, cars rushed past him on either side, and soon he was lost in a flurry of movement and beeping horns. He turned, pulling at his hair as panic washed over him. Will wasn't sure which way he was meant to be heading anymore.

More cars rushed past, tyres screeching as they swerved around Will, who stumbled aimlessly between the lanes. Suddenly, there was a rush of movement, flashes of white light and the sound of voices.

'Mr Graham?' 'Mr Graham!'

Before Will could react, a swarm of journalists had surrounded him, blocking the cars from hitting him. Their voices and cameras added to the swirl of panic.

_Mr Graham. Flash. Flash. Beep. Mr Graham. Flash._

Will span frantically, unable to see a way out of the circle which had formed around him. He raised his hands, trying to block out the light from the cameras, clenching his fists at the pain from each step he took.

_Flash. Beep. Mr Graham. Where have you been? Beep. Flash. Beep. Beep. Are you ok? He needs help. Mr Graham. Mr Graham._

Will ducked his head. His feet were covered in blood. Maybe he'd walked through glass. Or maybe it was just the road. He couldn't breathe properly. He was trapped.

_Mr Graham. Flash. Flash. Beep. You need to get out of the road. Beep. Flash._

Everything was shutting down. Will couldn't see properly as his eyes streamed with tears of pain. A figure stepped forward and he pulled back, tripping up the raised curb and falling with a cry. Bone impacted with concrete and tarmac with a sickening crunch.

_Mr Graham! Flash. Flash. Flash. Mr Graham. Flash-_

'MOVE!'

There were footsteps approaching, and then two people were crouching in front of him.

'Will?'

One of the figures stood again and turned to the circle. 'Move back. He needs space.'

_Flash. Flash. Beep. Stop taking photos! Mr Graham. Beep._

A hand grabbed Will's wrist. He flinched, but couldn't find the strength to pull away.

'Will? Look at me, Will.'

Will raised his head and came face to face with Alana. She wore a look of horrified concern as she reached her other hand out slowly and pressed it against his cheek.

'Are you with us, Will?'

Will tried to speak, but his throat was closed up. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even think. He dropped his head back down, unable to hold Alana's gaze. The other figure, Jack, dropped down beside them.

_Beep. Flash. Flash. Beep. Mr Crawford. Dr Bloom. Flash._

'Will?'

'He's in shock, Jack. He's really hurt. We need to get him to a hospital.'

Jack nodded solemnly, roving his eyes over Will's bruised skin and bloodied clothes.

Will's throat constricted. He twisted desperately and vomited onto the tarmac beside him. Vaguely, he was aware of gasps, and Alana pulling his hair back from his face. He looked down, and saw he'd vomited blood. That was bad. Will let out a strangled groan.

'Will! Jack, we need to move.'

'I'll have to carry him. He can't walk like this.'

Will felt thick, tree-like arms wrap around his shaking frame, and then he was hoisted into the air. The movement sent jarring pain across his body, and he couldn't hold on to the guttural scream which launched itself from his raw throat. There were several gasps around him. Jack was stoically silent. This was the second time he’d been carried, injured, in the last three days. Absently, he wondered which carrier was more dangerous; the serial killer who had tried to save him, or the law enforcer who had slowly broken him.

Alana grasped Will's limp hand. 'I'm sorry, Will. I'm so sorry.' Her voice was thick with emotion, tripping over the empty words.

Every step Jack took damaged Will's broken body, forcing groans from between his clamped lips. There were people running beside them, cameras flashing and questions flying. Jack, despite the pain it caused Will, picked up his pace.

Alana squeezed Will's hand tighter. 'We're helping you, Will. I'm so sorry. You're doing really well. We're almost there.'

There was a click, and then Will felt a blast of warm air on his face. Finally, they'd made it inside the building. The press were trapped outside, although their voices seemed to drift in through the glass doors anyway, muffled, like Will was in a giant fish tank with a shark lurking on the other side of the glass.

With a huff, Jack lowered Will to the floor, but Will cried out helplessly when his shoulder hit the wall, making Jack scoop him up again faster than lightning.

'Ok, Will. I didn't mean to hurt you. Where've you been?'

Will was unable to reply, not that Jack expected an answer. Not then, anyway.

There was a sound of feet pounding linoleum floor and then more voices floated into Will's consciousness. He pressed his face into Jack's jacket in a desperate attempt to blot them out.

A strange voice. 'Where's he hurt?'

'We don't know. A lot of places.'

'Will, we're going to give you a sedative to calm you down.'

Will fought feebly in Jack's arms at the words, grunting with the pain of it. 'N- no. I'm, I'm meant to stay awake. Concussed.' His words were mumbled, but they were at least intelligible.

Alana squeezed his hand tighter. 'Don't worry about that, Will. They'll look after you.'

Will tried to twist his head away as a mask was placed over his mouth and nose, but hands reached out and held him still. He arched his back in a desperate attempt to get away, but it simply served to send jolts of pain across his damaged rib cage. Will grimaced, digging his hands into the arms that held him, even as his muscles began to weaken. Around him, desperate voices muttered.

'We need to get him to the nearest hospital.'

'He's in a critical condition.'

'How did he make it here?'

'It's ok, Will. It's all ok.'

Will finally gave in and surrendered, allowing the sedative to whisk him away into blissful oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

Will slept almost solidly for the first few days; first because he was sedated, then because he was exhausted, and then to avoid having to speak to anyone. Especially Jack. He knew he'd have to speak to Jack eventually, answering his questions and evading suspicion, but for those first few days, after the surgery and the media circus, he was off the hook.

Some days, Jack sat with him. He sat, tapping his fingers on his thigh impatiently, desperate to ask Will exactly what had happened, but decent enough - and possibly shaken up enough - to allow Will to rest for a while first. Jack wouldn't wait forever, though.

Once, when Will was awake but pretending not to be, Jack brought with him a strange man, a psychiatrist with whom he hoped Will would speak, a psychiatrist by the name of Hannibal Lecter.

As soon as Will heard Hannibal's voice, speaking low to Jack in a soft rumble of rolling consonants, his heart rate began to pick up. To cover this, Will began to pant and sweat, making it look - as much as he could, based on the fact he'd never seen himself dreaming - as though he was in the throes of a nightmare. Thankfully, Jack had never seen Will dreaming before, so he'd have nothing to compare this to. _But Hannibal has_. Will's heart lurched at the thought. Would Hannibal be observant enough to see what Will was doing? Maybe. Probably.

Jack was holding his wrist then, speaking softly to him. 'It's ok, Will. You're safe here.'

Will wanted to scream that neither of them were safe sitting next to the Chesapeake Ripper, but he couldn't. Hannibal would find a way to dismiss Will's claims, probably saying Will had confused his nightmare with reality, still recovering from his concussion. Hannibal's mere presence forced Will to remain silent.

'Should we wake him?' Jack asked, his voice muffled as he directed the question toward Hannibal.

There was a shift, cloth rustling against cloth, as Hannibal leaned forward to look at Will more closely. 'He'll work it out on his own. Will just needs time to bring himself back. I believe he can do that.'

Jack didn't speak. Will knew the words hadn't been directed at Jack, anyway.

Sometimes, Alana would sit with Will. This was when he felt truly safe, truly able to let go and sleep without disturbance. Alana would hold his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb absently across his palm, as she read to him in her soft, gentle voice. When she was there, Will let the tension slip from his muscles, finally submitting to the exhaustion that plagued him. Had he stayed awake longer, he would have heard Alana whispering to him about his dogs, his home and its surrounding forests, and the new psychiatrist, Dr Lecter, who was well respected, an excellent mentor, and someone Will would be able to talk to in the coming weeks. Had Will heard any of this, he wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth closed. Without realising it, Alana, with her comforting words, would have been giving Will a death sentence.

It was on the fourth day that Will woke early in the morning in his hospital bed to find Jack by his side, a notebook and pen in his hand, looking expectantly at him.

'Hey, Will. How are you feeling?'

The time had come. Will rubbed a hand across his face, blinking against the bright lights. As much as he was putting on a front of exhaustion, he was in reality more exhausted than he thought was really healthy after three full days in bed. 'I'm doing fine, Jack. You can ask your questions.'

Jack glanced down slightly guiltily at his notebook, but offered no form of apology. 'Ok, Will, if you're sure you're ready.'

'I'm fine. I'd rather just get it over with.'

Jack nodded, pulling his chair a little nearer to the bed. 'You chased the suspect - he's called Dan Phelps, by the way - into the trees, and then what happened?'

So, Jack was asking him to create the narrative, rather than supplying Will with the details and asking him to fill in the blanks. That made lying harder. He cast his mind back to that night, when he'd nearly been killed, when Hannibal had saved him.

'I followed him into the trees, but it was dark so I lost sight of him pretty quickly. I told him he was surrounded, but he clearly knew I was on my own-'

'Did he seem confident?'

'...yeah. Although I'm fairly certain he hadn't killed before.' Will's answer was cautious, almost uncertain.

Jack nodded along anyway. Then he motioned for Will to continue.

'Phelps attacked me from behind, he tried to hit my head with a rock, but I ducked and he hit my shoulder instead.'

'Your shoulder and collar bone were both fractured, but you did a pretty good job of bandaging them.'

If Jack was suspicious, there was nothing in his voice to give it away.

Will nodded again and offered a lopsided smile. 'I tried my best. I think part of those injuries was from me firing my gun.' _I caused more damage to myself than the killer did, how appropriate_. He knew Hannibal would be amused by that. 

'You must have missed him. There was no gunshot on the body.'

_No need to rub it in_ , Will muttered internally. Out loud, he said, 'I'm afraid it's a little hazy after that, Jack. The gun recoil was painful...I don't know, maybe I blacked out, maybe the pain just distracted me, but the next thing I remember is someone different talking to me.'

'Where was Phelps?' Jack asked this without looking up, too busy scribbling on his notebook.

'I'm not sure. Dead, I presume. I'm guessing the other guy killed him.'

'Now why would he do that?'

Will rubbed his eyes again. All he really wanted to do was go back to sleep, but then he'd have to go through all this later on. 'I don't know, Jack.'

'There seem to be a few things you don't know, Will.' Jack was looking straight at him now. Will stopped himself from twisting his fingers into the bedsheets.

'Things got hazy...I must've hit my head at some point; I just remember this stranger being there next to me and-'

'What was he like?'

'A man. Tall, broad shoulders. I couldn't see much of him in the dark.'

'His voice, was it accented at all?'

_Yes, it was a rolling European which glided across the vowels of words rather than falling into their valleys._  'American, no clues there.'

'What did he say to you? Tell me word for word if you can.'

_‘Either you’ll kill me, or you’ll leave me here to be found. I know which I’d prefer.’_

_'You've seen my face now; you know who I am.'_

_'Hit my head against a rock. It'll skew my recollection and give you longer to get away.'_

_The corners of the Ripper's eyes pinched. Will frowned; he'd said something wrong. He was silent for several long moments._

_'I couldn't do that to you, Will. Your mind is far too beautiful._ '

'He just murmured things at first. I wasn't really in a good state, and I had no idea who he was. He said he could help me if I followed him.' Will trailed off, unsure how to continue his story.

'Why didn't you shout for help? Beverly was looking through the woods, she would have heard you.'

A normal person would have shouted. However much pain they were in, however confused they were, it would be instinct. So there had to be a reason Will couldn't shout. Purposefully, Will started to raise his heartbeat, knowing Jack would notice it on the monitor. He ran a hand through his tangled curls. 'I...I didn't do what he wanted fast enough. So he, he gagged me, maybe with a tie, or something like that. I'm not really sure.' Will was impressed with how much his voice shook. The golden pendulum itched to swing. He hated lying like this, despised himself for it, but had little choice. The urge to punch Hannibal’s smug face was strong.

Jack was still holding the pen in his hand, but he wasn't writing anymore. He'd noticed the change in tone of Will's stunted narrative.

'What happened next, Will?'

'I tried to fight him off, to get free, but he was strong. He was stronger than me, and I was hurt; when he pinned my hands behind my back, it pulled my shoulder. I must have blacked out again then, because...because then next thing I knew I was in a van.'

Will fought for gasps of air, purposefully working himself up. He took all the fear, all the stress and strain of those few days with Hannibal and amplified them, allowing them to wash over him until they were out of his control. His hands were shaking now. He wasn't thinking about his story anymore; he was thinking about Hannibal. About how strong Hannibal was, how firm Hannibal had been when he wanted to be, how Hannibal had said he'd be back...

Jack was talking again.

'...Will?'

Will became aware that the heart monitor was racing. He wasn't really faking the panic anymore; his sudden realisation at how out of control he felt was enough to push him to the edge.

Jack was leaning forward, grasping Will's wrist.

'Will, can you hear me? Just breathe for a bit, ok? Alana's on her way.'

Will nodded, clenching his fists. 'He was so kind, Jack. I…I didn't want him to help me, but he did. And then I didn't want him to leave, but he said he couldn't stay, and, and I...' Will wasn't really making the story up anymore.

'He was kind? How was he kind?'

Jack was still, desperately, staying focused on the original task, even as Will fell further and further away. He voice was gentle, softer than Will had ever heard it before.

'He looked at me like he actually cared. Nobody really looks at me that way. I was scared of him, because I thought that, I thought that he was going to kill me, but he didn't. He, he...'

Jack was frowning now, stung and confused all at once, but suddenly the door was opening and Alana was hurrying in, footsteps sharp and precise over the cheap carpet. She was beside the bed in seconds, grasping Will's other hand.

'Will? Will, look at me.'

Will shook his head. He clasped Alana's hand tightly but cast his gaze downwards, sealing his mouth tightly to stop more words from tumbling, unedited, out. He'd said far more than was safe, far more than was sensible. Jack wouldn't leave it here. Had Will been looking, he would have seen the furious glance Alana gave Jack.

'I told you to go easy on him, Jack.' She hissed. 'I told you to wait until I was here.'

'This is part of an active case, Alana. I've waited days to ask him these questions. I need answers now.' Jack lowered his voice pointlessly. 'And I didn't think he'd...do this.' He sounded slightly unsettled.

Alana returned her attention to Will. Jack pulled his hand away and sat back again to watch, unable to offer any more comfort.

'Will,' Alana said, now in a much gentler tone, 'I want you to focus on my voice. Breathe deeply. In. And out. In. And out. That's it. That’s good. Now think about your house, your dogs. Imagine their faces, imagine their soft fur.'

Will did imagine. He saw himself sitting by his stream. The dogs were milling around him; Buster was hopping about in the shallows at the water's edge, while Winston sat loyally beside him, panting lightly and nosing him for attention. Will smiled at them, patting the dogs and rubbing their ears, where the softest fur lay. The quiet trickle of the stream set a gentle backdrop over which the sound of padding paws and panted breaths were heard.

Opening his eyes again, feeling far more in control, Will met Alana's concerned gaze. 'I want to go home.'

* * *

Will's wish was granted surprisingly, _suspiciously_ , quickly, and he was soon on his way home. Apparently it had been decided that the hospital had done all it could do for Will, and he would now recover better at home, where the surroundings were familiar and he was more in control. Alana's influence in this decision was shown in its every pore, and Will thanked her all the more for her stubborn attitude and fierce loyalty; when Alana wanted something done, it was done.

In fact, it was Alana who drove Will home. Will sat in the plush leather seat, resting his head against the cool glass of the window, eyes closed, breathing in his freedom. He felt Alana's worried gaze on him every time there was a chance to look away from the road, but for once he didn't mind. Being away from Jack's heavy scrutiny was worth ten thousand concerned glances from Alana.

Will could tell Alana was gearing up to ask him something. Stoically, he kept his forehead pressed against the glass. As they turned off the main road and down the winding roads of Wolf Trap, she finally spoke.

'Why are you so reckless with your own life, Will?'

The question wasn't entirely surprising, but Will still found it difficult to answer.

'I was no more reckless than Beverly was, or Jack for taking us to that crime scene unguarded, or the murderer, for staying around when the FBI showed up.' Maybe he shouldn’t have made a comparison between himself and a murderer.

'Jack was reckless. And he feels guilty about what happened to you. But Will, you have to realise that you put yourself in danger that night.'

'I know.'

'Why did you do it? This isn't the first time you've done something like this either.' _Although it's never turned out like this before_ , she didn't add.

Will held his position against the window, but opened his eyes to watch as thick, green forest flowed past the window. He couldn't wait to be home, free from suffocating questions and suspicion and cameras - they'd been photographed leaving the hospital that morning.

'I had to catch him. I couldn't just stand and watch him get away, Alana. That would have been reckless.'

Alana was silent then for several minutes, until Will thought the discussion was over. But, just before they turned down the final road to Will's home, she said in a quiet, controlled voice, 'I just wish you'd take more care of yourself, Will.'

Will didn't comment; he had nothing he could say. Her words reminded him of what Hannibal had said just a few days before.

They were still in silence when they reached Will's drive. Will would have leapt from the car before it had even stopped moving, but his injuries and exhaustion held him back. When the car did stop, he extricated himself slowly, painfully, leaning on the opened car door to lever himself up. Alana came around the car and stood near him, but didn't offer a hand, knowing Will would resent her for it. From inside, the barking of many dogs could be heard.

'I've been coming to feed and walk your dogs every morning. It probably wasn't as good as having you around, but they seemed ok. Winston took a lot of coaxing to get him further than the porch.'

Will looked up at Alana, meeting her eyes for the first time with genuine gratitude. 'Thanks for looking out for them. I'd hoped you would.'

Alana smiled at him, trying and failing to hide her concern behind the gesture.

They walked together toward the door. Will barely got it open before the dogs were barreling out. He sat down in the doorway before they could knock him down, accepting licks and barks, saying their names and stroking each dog as if he hadn't seen them in months. They sniffed his clothes and hands, taking in the strange smells of hospital-issue soap. Will wondered if they would still smell a trace of Hannibal's scent on him, but he doubted it.

After several minutes, Alana gently tapped Will on the shoulder. He didn't notice at first, so absorbed was he in greeting his dogs, his family. But the second time, he started and looked up.

'We should probably head inside, it's cold out here.'

Will nodded, and used the door frame to pull himself excruciatingly to his feet. He didn't make a sound, but he knew Alana had seen that the movement had hurt him because he hadn’t covered his crumpled face quickly enough.

As soon as they were inside and Will was seated on the sofa, Alana made her observation apparent.

'Do you need some more painkillers?'

'I'm good for a while.' Will knew how drowsy they made him, and he didn't like it. Pain was, marginally, more manageable.

'You're white, Will. I know you're in pain. I can see it.'

Will ducked his head, embarrassed by how easily Alana had read him. _Just like Hannibal_. He wondered if Alana knew Hannibal at all, but he couldn't ask straight out without it seeming odd.

Alana came and sat down on the coffee table directly in front of Will, so their knees almost brushed against one another.

'You need to start taking better care of yourself. If you push yourself too far too soon, you'll end up back in hospital. We both know how much you'd hate that.'

Will nodded. 'I know.' He raised his head and gave the most normal smile he could manage. 'Really, Alana. I can take care of myself.'

She returned his smile cautiously. 'You just need a hand right now. Don't push me away.'

'I'm not pushing you away. I never pulled you in in the first place.' Will clamped his mouth shut, realising how that had sounded. 'Alana-'

'I'm going to make something simple for you to eat, and then you're going to take those painkillers and sleep. You look exhausted.'

Knowing defeat when he tasted it, Will slumped back against the sofa cushions, grimacing when the movement stretched his aching shoulder muscles.

Half an hour later, with a belly full of omelette - the nicest he'd had in a while - and sitting comfortably in his bed under a blanket, Will watched Alana remove the painkillers from their packet. He was breathing lightly, trying to still the sting of his broken ribs every time he inhaled. However much he loathed admitting it, he knew he needed the painkillers.

'You sure you don't want me to stay the night?' Alana placed four round white pills into Will's palm and watched him swallow them dry. He almost thought she was going to ask him to open his mouth, but she didn't.

'I'll be fine, Alana.' Will met her eyes then, trying to look more grateful. 'Honestly, I'm fine. Thank you for coming, but I'll be alright now.'

'Ok, but at I'm staying until you're asleep; you're not breathing normally.'

_You wouldn't be with three broken ribs, either._  Will managed not to say this comment aloud. He was too tried to fight Alana's strong will now. Instead, he rested his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes as the first numbing effects of the drugs hit him.

As he drifted off to sleep, Will was vaguely aware of Alana brushing the hair from his face and wishing him goodnight, but she didn't stand up to leave. Although Will didn't know it, Alana stayed for another hour, watching Will's chest rise and fall in a deep, steady rhythm, wondering why, even as she was so close to Will, he felt a million miles away.

  
In the morning, just as Will had asked, Alana was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your comments; they really help me to write! If you want to come chat on my tumblr, you can find me here: http://notentirelysurewhyyourehere.tumblr.com/


End file.
